The Wishing Well
by Anda Faith
Summary: Deathly Hallows AU. Even with her extensive research, Hermione still cannot figure out how to destroy horcruxes. Maybe a certain wishing well will help her...
1. How Not To Destroy A Horcrux

**Author's Note:** This came out of nowhere from a prompt off of the Tomione forum and was originally written as a one-shot. It's set during Deathly Hallows and in an Alternate Universe, so some things that may be true in canon have been changed. I hope you enjoy it!

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize, I do not own. Chances are that it belongs to J.K. Rowling. The wishing well in this fic is a real place in the UK, but I don't own the wishing well either. Also, the character Divitiacus is a real ancient druid that existed during the time of Julius Ceasar.

**The Wishing Well**

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Hermione stepped away from her newly constructed wards around the tent that she no longer could see. To be safe, she doubled checked to make sure the wards would hold. Harry and Ron would be safe for now; she had left her beaded bag and a note just in case one of them needed something or woke up and noticed she wasn't there. She wouldn't take too long, she hoped. Turning toward a nearby tree, she marked it with a slash of her wand, warding the mark so only she could see it. The snatchers had been sniffing alarmingly close to them lately.

Her destination in mind, Hermione took a deep breath and disapparated. With a soft 'pop', she appeared in the goat pen just outside the Hog's Head and quickly tackled the nearest goat to the ground, hurriedly disapparating again before anyone spotted her. After a quick series of apparation to make sure no one had followed her, she landed hard on a pile of boulders overlooking a small valley that was bathed in the light of the full moon. Her arms tightened around the goat, keeping it pressed against her chest as it writhed and bayed.

"Shh," she hushed softly. Patting the goat's head, she already started to feel guilt tugging at her chest over what she had to do. She wished she had brought a calming potion for it, but she settled for a cheering charm, which seemed to work somewhat. It still wasn't a very happy goat, but at least it had stopped struggling.

Maneuvering herself down the rocky slope, Hermione surveyed the land in front of her. Between two large towering boulders, surrounded by holly trees, was an oval-shaped formation of rocks that was constructed around a small spring. This was one of the few legitimately magical places that she had heard about _before_ she went to Hogwarts. Muggles called it the Druid's Alter, but magical folk commonly knew it as the forbidden wishing well. The druids had constructed it hundreds of years ago, burying the bones of their ancestors in a special chamber below the well. As a way of paying homage to them, many druids would offer up gifts of gold, food, and wine to the well for luck and prosperity. However, others, with more selfish motives, had found that certain offerings allowed them to be accepted into well to ask their ancestors for anything their heart desired.

Hermione paused at the opening of the well and set the goat down, petrifying it with a wave of her wand. Glancing into the well's depths, she removed the sharp dagger from the sheath in her pocket and hesitated ever so slightly. There was a reason why the well was forbidden – she could be arrested if someone merely spotted her near the well. This, though – she held the knife over the goat – _this_ would get her a lengthy sentence in Azkaban. Plunging the knife into the goat's throat, she held its neck over the side of the well, letting the blood drain into the water. It pooled in the center, an ink blot on the glassy surface, before it sunk into the depths.

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes but she quickly willed them away, breathing deeply. _I don't have enough time to break down over a goat,_ she told herself stubbornly. With a determined expression, she cut into the goat's chest, removing its still beating heart. Blood dripped down her wrists, collecting in the lines in her skin and soaking her sleeves. She threw the heart into the well, watching with baited breath as the water swirled and bubbled to life.

As though in a trance, she felt herself moving forward, stepping off the ledge into the vortex and falling with no resistance. The well accepted her, sucking her deep into the water until her lungs started to protest from lack of air. She struggled, trying to fight against the current that was pulling her down, and just as her vision started to go dark around the edges, she was spat out into the shadowy chamber, gasping for air. Right above her head was the invisible barrier, holding up the swirling vortex of water from where she had come.

"Welcome, Hermione Granger," a raspy disembodied voice greeted her.

Hermione's spine tingled as she realized that the source of the voice was in her mind. Catching her breath, she got to her feet, picking up her wand that had flown from her grip. Since the voice was in her mind, she had no question as to how it knew her name. It probably even knew what she wanted already.

"Hello," she said to the voice, squaring her shoulders. "Would it be rude of me to ask for your name?"

"I am Divitiacus of the Aedui," the voice replied, "though I am certain that is not what you have come here to ask for."

"No, it isn't," Hermione said, figuring that she'd get straight to the point. "As you may already know, the wizarding world is in the midst of a terrible war. Vol- the Dark Lord," she corrected herself, "is currently in power and he can only be stopped if we destroy his seven horcruxes. None of the books on the subject have been very helpful. So, from you, I need to know how I can destroy his horcruxes."

"Horcruxes?" Divitiacus repeated in an interested tone. "How interesting. Yes, I believe I may be able to help you with that."

Hermione smiled, feeling an enormous weight start to seep from her chest. "What do I have to do?"

"Hold still for a moment," Divitiacus answered. Hermione's brows furrowed, wondering why he would want her to hold still.

Obviously reading her mind, Divitiacus elaborated, "You have to hold still for me to help you. I have to perform a spell."

Swallowing thickly and staring suspiciously at the dark walls of the chamber, Hermione relented cautiously, holding as still as possible. "Alright," she said uncertainly.

Barely a second later, a bright light and a cold rushing wind flooded the chamber, whipping her hair around her face and nearly knocking her over. She gritted her teeth, fighting to stay still and keep her footing on the rocky floor of the chamber. Ruthlessly, the light kept pouring in, momentarily blinding her and forcing her eyes shut until there was only darkness. Then it all came to a sudden halt.

Hermione opened her eyes, the centre of her forehead creasing as she gauged her surroundings. She didn't know what to expect from Divitiacus, but this was the last thing she would have guessed. He seemed to have transported her into the foyer of – what seemed like – a manor. The massive double doors behind her were open, letting in the cool rainy breeze from the outside, and a modest chandelier hung over her head.

Why would he send her here? Was this where she was supposed to find the answer? Why couldn't he just _tell_ her?

Looking around the foyer for clues, she shrugged to herself. Maybe the manor had a library around somewhere that contained a book she needed. But just as she was about to set off to find a library, there was a commotion coming from the corridor ahead of her. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the hall, followed by a barrage of screaming and yelling – she couldn't make out the words.

Hermione tightened the grip on her wand and briskly moved forward, following the noise. Was this what Divitiacus sent her here for? She noiselessly skidded to a stop in the doorway of one of the rooms as an unmistakable green flash of light emanated from it, freezing her in her tracks.

The person, standing over the body of a man whose eyes were glassed over with death, was someone that Hermione had only seen in pictures of on the shelf in Slughorn's office. Hermione's brows rose in shock as her eyes roved over the three dead bodies surrounding him. It just wasn't possible – it couldn't have been _him_. Divitiacus would've had to send her _decades_ back in time!

It was when he pulled the ring – the destroyed horcrux in her time – out of his pocket that it really hit. Hermione pinched herself to make sure this was real, that Tom Riddle was really making a horcrux just before her eyes and she wasn't going insane. Divitiacus actually sent her back to this moment, but why exactly? This definitely didn't show her how to destroy horcruxes!

Hermione's lips parted as a tiny wisp of white light slipped from Riddles mouth, his eyes following it as he started chanting. She knew the enchantment by heart from reading that section of _Magick Moste Evile_ repeatedly until it was positively burned into her brain. What did Divitiacus want her to do with this?

Maybe she had to learn how to create a horcrux in order to destroy it? No, that didn't make sense… She already knew how to create a horcrux. She didn't need to see it in person to know how to create it.

Just as Riddle was getting to the part where he was supposed to trap the soul into the ring, he paused mid-chant, spotting her with his dark eyes. Hermione's heart momentarily stopped and her veins flooded with panic as she raised her wand. She fired off the first thing she could think of, which was thankfully a shielding spell.

_There goes the hope that I was invisible._

The wisp of white light that was a piece of Riddle's soul dissipated just as a vicious blue-coloured spell pelted her shield, shattering it and burning the edges of her coat. Quickly shielding herself again, she backed out of the doorway, ready to run for it toward the open doors down the corridor. But a loud 'crack' sounded through the room and Riddle appeared in front of her, breaking through her shield with a powerful wave of magic.

Before she could get another spell out, he wordlessly disarmed her and had her body immobilized in one brisk twirl of his wand.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Riddle demanded, his voice low and menacing. He towered over her, drawing her damp messy hair away from her face with the tip of his wand.

"I'm - I don't know," Hermione blurted out, swallowing thickly and trying to focus on breaking through the immobilizing spell. It was technically possible to break without a wand, but her only knowledge of that was theoretical. It also would have helped if her heart wasn't trying to beat out of her chest.

Riddle's eyes narrowed and he regarded her in a very uncomfortable measuring way. It made every inch of her skin crawl and the hair on her arms stand on end. Just as she thought she couldn't feel any more exposed under his gaze, a smirk pulled at his lips and he asked, "Does anyone know that you're here?"

Hermione glared at him. "Yes," she replied forcefully, making sure his attention was directed away from the tips of her fingers. She had just barely gotten them to move. "My mother is expecting me for dinner."

"Liar," he said softly, his eyes sharply gazing at her as he moved even closer. She flinched, desperately wishing she could back away - she focused on her feet, trying to wiggle her toes in her shoes.

"I'm not lying," Hermione countered stubbornly.

Riddle ignored her. "Do you know what I was doing in there?" he asked, gesturing toward the drawing room door with a minuscule nod of his head.

The abrupt change of subject and the question caused her to hesitate. At the same time, she was covertly flexing her foot inside her shoe. Merlin, this was difficult.

"Come now," he drawled, his smirk widening until the sharp tips of his teeth showed through his parted lips, "tell me the truth. I can tell when you're lying."

Hermione winced, clenching her jaw. _Stupid, stupid… stupid!_ Hermione chastised herself. She should have _known_ he knew passive legilimency when he called her a liar!

"Well, I suppose it's no matter," Riddle said before she could answer him. "Since you so rudely interrupted me, you will just have to do." His eyes gazed over her form, assessing her briefly, and he went to gather his ring from beside the body of his father.

_No no – bloody hell – Divitiacus!_ This wasn't supposed to happen! She couldn't _die_ – she was the only hope at finding out how to destroy a horcrux! Heart racing, she willed herself to move; she willed anything to move. She needed more time. _Mind over matter, Granger,_ she thought, _it's just an immobilizing spell. _

Riddle's footsteps thumped across the hardwood floor, echoing as he stalked toward her with his wand raised.

"Wait!" she gasped, forcing herself to raise her hands. It was like trying to move them through concrete instead of air. The action parted her coat and Riddle's eyes moved from her raised hands to Slytherin's locket resting heavily over her shirt. His expression darkened with furious suspicion.

"Who _are_ you?" he growled through his teeth, stalking close to her.

Eyes wide, Hermione quickly forced her stiff legs and torso to move.

But Riddle raised his wand higher, striking at her like the snake he was. She had just barely gotten all of her body parts free of the immobilization spell before the Cruciatus Curse hit her, searing her veins with fire. She went down screaming, collapsing into a heap against the wall. Her skin felt as if it was going to explode off her body any second. Needles digging under her nails – stabbing through her skull.

She emerged from the curse with blood filling her mouth, blinking rapidly at Riddle's feet. She almost didn't hear what he said next as she noticed her wand, barely an arm's length away from her on the ground. She was so close…

"**Answer** me. _Who_ are you?" Riddle questioned in a rough staccato tone, raising his wand again.

Expecting another dose of the Cruciatus, Hermione rolled out of the way toward her wand, grasping at it tightly and bowling Riddle over in the process. Taking advantage of his momentary shock, she clumsily sprinted toward the door, blindly shooting spells behind her. Hermione's mind whirled, focusing on where she needed to go, and she disapparated with a 'crack'. Landing in the chamber beneath the forbidden wishing well, she could barely believe that she got away.

"Send me back, send me back!" she exclaimed, hoping someone would listen.

"Are you certain you want me to do that, Hermione Granger?" Divitiacus' voice sounded through her brain.

"Yes," Hermione said without hesitation, sighing as she caught her breath. She wanted to be in her _own_ time – there had to be another way to destroy horcruxes, one that didn't have to involve her coming in direct contact with Tom Riddle. Dumbledore was successful at destroying the ring; she just needed to figure out how he did it.

"If you insist," Divitiacus replied, sending in the bright light and rushing wind.

This time when Hermione opened her eyes, she was standing at the bloodied edge of the wishing well with a strange iridescent white stone in her hand and the carcass of a goat lying at her feet. She examined the curious stone in the moonlight, bringing it closer to her face, noticing the little specs of glowing sand in the stone. Time sand... Was that how Divitiacus wanted her to get rid of the horcruxes? _Time travel?_

Behind her, the leaves rustled, crunching ominously, and she froze, her hand tightening on her wand. The warm presence of someone standing far too close caused the hairs to prickle on the back of her neck and her heart sunk in her chest once she realized who it was.

"You honestly didn't think you'd get away from me _that_ quickly. Your apparation technique is appalling." Riddle paused and she could feel him picking up a tendril of her hair, stroking it between his fingers. The tip of his wand pressed hard against her back.

"Now, why don't you tell me where you got that locket."

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**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading! Please review!


	2. Now, Where To Hide The Body?

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much to my reviewers and followers! It's largely thanks to you and a spark of inspiration that I am continuing this fic. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be done, but I hope that you enjoy this continuation!

**Disclaimer:** All that you recognize most likely belongs to J.K. Rowling. The wishing well is also not mine. It exists in the middle of a forest somewhere in the United Kingdom.

**The Wishing Well **

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The locket that rested heavily over her breast was practically vibrating – purring – as Tom Riddle moved closer, pressing himself tightly against her back with his wand against her throat. "Judging by your reaction, it's clear that you understand the significance of that locket," his smooth voice reverberated over the shell of her ear.

_Oh you wouldn't believe me if I told you…_ Hermione thought, gripping her wand in her hand. From this angle, it was hard to get a clean shot of him – she knew that _so_ _certainly_ that she didn't even dare try it – so she did the only thing she could think of-

_Destination_ – _Determination_ – _Deliberation!_

They were spinning, being squeezed through a long tube, until they landed in a moss-blanketed forest. Squeezing her eyes shut again, they disappeared with a '_crack!'_ Apparating in quick succession made the sensation progressively worse, the dizziness overwhelming, but she kept it up. Over and over again.

Hogsmeade.

Brighton.

London.

Bristol.

Edinburgh.

Elgin.

Like perpetually being squeezed through drinking straw, twirling in a frenzy. The pressure of it threatened to burst her skull. Bile rose in her throat.

Cardiff.

_Divitiacus_. The wishing well.

Riddle broke away from her as they both fell onto their arms and knees, emptying the contents of their stomachs all over the leafy – blood soaked – ground. The sound of their gasping heaving breaths cut through the frigid night air and they stared at each other, eyes meeting fiercely.

Wiping off her mouth with her sleeve, Hermione scrambled to her feet just as Riddle stood dizzily, swaying as he nearly tripped over the goat carcass.

"Nice try," he gritted out, breathless and furious and dazed.

Without warning, he lunged at her drunkenly, his hand clasping around the locket at her breast. Her body grasped at him on instinct and she felt the sickening lurch of apparation once more, spinning endlessly – _oh god the pressure_.

It was as if she was being squeezed through a hollow needle, thin and long and tight and _excruciating_.

Her ears popped and sounds were dulled as they landed in a heap on cool hard pavement. She gagged, forcing up anything she had left in her stomach – it was all acid and burned her throat. The back of her neck was raw from him gripping onto the chain of the locket, causing it to bite into her skin.

Coughing and dry heaving, she felt throbbing pain in her fingers and found that the tips of her nails had been splinched down to the raw, tender skin. Riddle was bleeding from the back of his wand hand, a strip of flesh splinched away from the apparation.

"You idiot," Hermione growled, her throat sore. She lifted her head to look at him, sprawled out next to her trying to catch his breath. A puddle of sick was splattered on the ground by his head and her vision was swimming. "We could have lost our heads!"

At least she had the decency of knowing when to stop!

_Bloody hell_. They were in no shape to even lift a wand at this point. Her stomach gurgled unpleasantly and she laid her feverish cheek back down onto the cold pavement. What she wouldn't do for a Vertigo Cure right now. This was _unbearable_.

Her body ached and felt drained and bruised all over. And she needed a drink.

"Where did you get that locket?"

Merlin, he was persistent. Hermione glared at him even if he couldn't see it. "Borgin and Burkes," she answered, the lie slipping past her lips with ease.

It didn't really hit her until then that she was in the _future_ with a person from the past – _Tom_ _Riddle_ of all people! – and she suddenly wanted to blast that wishing well to smithereens for getting her into this predicament. _You must not be seen._ Damn that to hell. He seemed to have apparated them right in the middle of a dingy Muggle street from the looks of it. Not only were they defying the Time laws but _also_ the International Statute of Secrecy.

"Why do you want to know so badly?" she asked, feigning curiosity and not bothering to hide her disdain. Her body tinged in agony as she attempted to get to her feet. It would have helped if her clothes weren't absolutely soaked. Riddle was doing the same and failing just as poorly.

One apparation too many was _dangerous_ business. If she hadn't been used to it – due to the past few months – she probably would have been much worse off. It was shocking that Riddle fared almost as well as her.

"It's mine," he responded simply, catching his breath and gripping his wand. Even from their crouched and pathetic, pain-ridden states, he aimed it at her. "_Rightfully_ mine."

She kept her wand trained on him as much as humanly possible, watching him carefully. "I'll have you know that I paid good money for this locket; I'm not about to give it to _you_," she bit back, keeping up the façade.

"Yes you will." Riddle was standing now and bearing down on her as she winced to move fully upright and scramble backwards. His hand was dripping blood, all the way down to the tip of the bone-coloured wand. He stalked toward her, staggering only slightly and somehow still managing to be graceful about it.

The tip of his wand flicked upward and she screamed whatever spell she could draw from her mind. "_Incarcerous!_"

His shield blocked it flawlessly and he tutted in the back of his throat, his brows furrowing as he looked down upon her. "None of that," he said softly, though it still held as much power as an order. "Now, _give _me_ the locket_."

Hermione held herself defiantly, her shoulders squared, even as she felt her back press against an iron gate. "No," she sternly replied, lifting her chin. The gate groaned as her weight pressed against it.

For a mere second, Riddle's gaze wandered away from her face and he seemed to freeze on spot, blinking back at her. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Hermione pounced and sent him flying onto his back, '_Expelliarmus!'_ spewing from her lips.

His wand clattered noisily to the side and she slashed her wand at him, wrapping him up in invisible ropes.

"This wasn't where I meant to… It's _different_. _Everything_ is _different_." Riddle seemed far more concerned with his surroundings than his captured state and Hermione perplexedly looked around at where they landed.

Then she discovered the _massive_ problem. Standing not-so-proudly behind her was the dilapidated and abandoned orphanage where Tom Riddle had grown up. Wool's Orphanage – she knew it was Wool's from her own personal research, but the lettering that once formidably outlined the top of the gate was gone, crumbled from vandalism, age, and neglect. Why had he taken her to _this_ place? Why not someplace like Hogsmeade or Hogwarts? Even Knockturn Alley would do!

Ugh, she should have known better than to mess with the ancestors of druids!

Heaving a great sigh, Hermione cast an extra _incarcerous_ spell on Riddle to keep him still and picked up his wand. As she placed a Notice-Me-Not charm on them, he demanded answers and tried prying into her mind when she accidentally glanced into his eyes. Since he was without his wand, it wasn't too hard to get away from it, but for a sixteen-year-old…

She hated to think of what the Lord Voldemort of _this_ time could do without a wand.

Largely ignoring him and anything that came out of his mouth, Hermione levitated the young Dark Lord by her side, her mind whirling with thoughts on what the bloody hell she was going to do with him. Every time he started squirming – even just a _little_ bit – she'd layer on another _incarcerous_. He was slippery and she couldn't afford to go through another ordeal like the one that took to catch him. Her body wouldn't be able to take it; it had already been through a few bouts of initial apparation, goat sacrifice and wishing well-diving, two instances of time travel, _more_ apparation, and then she lost count when she started apparating them _all over the blooming country_.

And all of that for _what?_ A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle. Yes. _Genius_, Hermione.

However, Divitiacus _did_ give her that stone with the time sand… which she had dropped next to the goat carcass and the wishing well that had gotten her into this trouble in the first place.

_Incarcerous._

Hermione glared down at Tom Riddle, who was staring back at her silently – watching. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, the acrimony in his voice as thick as pea soup.

"I don't know," she honestly replied, staring resolutely ahead as she traipsed through the back alleys of London with Riddle levitating at her side. She had to get her bearings back. Maybe, then, she could apparate them somewhere.

To _where_, she had no idea. Her beaded bag was left back in the warded tent with Harry and Ron, which meant that camping was out of the question. She had a bit of pocket change to spare, but not a lot to do anything substantial. The wizarding world was at war so that left out any place that would attract _that_ sort of attention.

It couldn't be any place incriminating either, due to the time traveller that she currently had in her possession.

_Incarcerous._

There were Muggle hotels, but that would be incriminating. Most hotels had television sets and other things that weren't built in the 1940's. And she definitely couldn't bring him back to Harry and Ron. One of them was bound to kill Riddle and ruin the very fabric of time, sending them all into chaos. Having any knowledge that Harry existed was also incriminating. Riddle couldn't know of _anything_ about the future.

The future… Her mind debated over the idea that suddenly hit her. Did she dare mess with it again? It was certainly possible that she could sacrifice another goat and ask Divitiacus to take Riddle back to where he came from. _Technically_, that was a viable option, even if she loathed the idea of animal sacrifice and consorting with druid ancestors, given her experience with them.

But she was getting a little desperate…. Bloody Riddle.

_Incarcerous_.

How did that adage go? Fool me once, shame on you – fool me twice? Hopefully, it would go better _this_ time.

Gripping onto Riddle's invisible bindings, Hermione spun on spot, disappearing with a '_crack'_ and spiraling off toward her new destination.

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**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading! Please review!


	3. How To Outsmart A Druid In One Easy Step

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone for reading, following, and reviewing! I appreciate every single one and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize, I do not own and I am making no money from writing this. The wishing well in this fic is yet another thing I do not own as well as Divitiacus, Casticus, Dumnorix, and Orgetorix, who are all historical druids/tribesmen/part of the Gallic version of the triumvirate during the 1st century B.C.

**The Wishing Well**

How to Outsmart a Druid in One Easy Step

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"Do you do this _often?_" Riddle inquired while she sliced out the still-beating heart of yet another goat and tossed it into the wishing well. He was stiffly propped up against said wishing well, so many layers of invisible ropes biding him that he seemed to be floating six inches away from the circular stone wall.

The goat carcass fell lifelessly next to the previous one and the vortex within the well started swirling. "It's gradually becoming a new hobby of mine," Hermione said as she latched her fingers onto Riddle's invisible bindings. The locket round her neck kept purring the closer she got to him; it was such a bizarre sensation.

"You do understand that you could get a twenty-year sentence in Azkaban for this," Riddle dryly replied.

"And you'd be there for life for killing three Muggles," Hermione retorted. "Now, hold your breath."

They were drawn down into the water, sinking quickly. She could feel Riddle squirming at her side and she fought against it, trying not to breathe while keeping a firm grip on the young Dark Lord. As soon as the well spat them out into the chamber below, Hermione shot another bloody _incarcerous_ at him.

Riddle was gasping for air – he didn't listen to her when she told him to hold his breath.

"Greetings again," the voice of Divitiacus sounded through her head.

"Hello," Hermione said, shifting on her feet.

"Did the last wish I grant leave you unsatisfied?" The bastarding druid had the gall to sound amused.

Staring sternly at the walls of the chamber, Hermione replied, "Yes, in fact. I was wondering if you could please take _him_," – she gestured toward Riddle, who was staring at her as if she were mad – "back to where he came from."

"I'm afraid that I cannot, Hermione Granger."

_Well shitification_.

Hermione glared at the wall in front of her. Riddle glared as well, though confusedly.

Divitiacus continued, "Once a wish is granted it cannot be undone; however, I have provided you with the tools necessary to fulfill that particular wish."

"The stone," she clarified thoughtfully, running her fingers over her pocket where it resided. "Right. That is slightly problematic."

_I have no idea how to make a time-turner of any sort_, she thought, hoping the ancient druid would hear her. She didn't want to mention time travel in front of Riddle.

Then, suddenly, a book appeared out of thin air, landing on the dusty ground with a hallow _thud_. "No need," Divitiacus said. "Perhaps this will provide you with an answer."

"_Perhaps_…" Hermione repeated slowly, picking up the giant tome and reading over the title. _The Traveller's Secrets_ by Casticus, Dumnorix, and Orgetorix. Her mind whirled, thoughts of what to do plaguing her. "That leaves me with the problem of where to keep him for the time being."

"I apologize. I may only grant one wish per entrance." Divitiacus' voice reverberated through her mind.

"But I didn't _wish_ for this, Divitiacus," Hermione said, a small grin creeping over her lips. "You offered this book to me willingly."

Divitiacus seemed to mull over that and the lighting in the chamber grew brighter. "Yes," he said in a sibilant whisper, "very clever of you to point that out. When you leave this world, may I suggest that you tell your family to place your remains here? You have the potential of making an excellent addition to our council."

Hermione's brows rose. "I'll consider it, but I still need a place to keep Ri-_erm_ –" she glanced down at Riddle, who was staring at her intensely, "– _him_."

"Where is it that you wish to keep him, Hermione Granger?"

"Can you replicate things perfectly?" she asked uncertainly, her mind providing her with an idea. It was the most acceptable one that she could come up with.

"Anything of the material world."

"Then I wish for my beaded bag, with the undetectable expansion charm, and _all_ of its contents – _including_ the magical tent – to be replicated and given to me right at this moment." She tried to be as thorough as possible so there were no loopholes to go around. Pesky druid ancestors.

If she would have known…

"Yes, you would make a _fine_ addition," Divitiacus said as her beaded bag was dropped into her arms, on top of the massive leather-bound book.

Hermione smiled, checking to make sure everything in her bag was there and stowing the book away. "It's a very flattering offer, Divitiacus. Now, how do I get out of here? I've quite a few things to do before dawn."

"Straight up, of course," Divitiacus answered and Hermione felt the connection to him in her mind sever as she looked at the swirling mass of water above her. How was she going to get Riddle, herself, and her beaded bag out of there?

Conjure a ladder and then swim?

Fly?

That would be a bit… tricky.

With a sigh, she pointed her wand into her bag and accio'd Harry's Firebolt. "You," she said sternly to Riddle, opening her bag wide as possible and brandishing her wand at him, "are going to have to be put in here, okay?"

"Why bother to ask me if you're just going to do it anyway?" Riddle said with a snort, rolling his eyes.

She cast an extra tight _incarcerous_ on him and shot a temporary blindfold around his eyes. It wouldn't do for him to see everything she had in the beaded bag – some of it didn't exist in Riddle's time.

"There's no need to be _rude_," Riddle drawled and she could tell that he was glaring at her behind his blindfold from the rest of his expression. Then he recovered as she levitated him over the bag. "So, what did you wish for the last time you visited this place?" he asked casually, smirking. "The locket, perchance?"

Hermione ignored his question and maneuvered him into her bag, muffling any further questioning. She made sure to park him uncomfortably atop a pile of books for good measure.

How in the world was she going to keep him locked up while she returned to Harry and Ron?

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She apparated not far from where Harry and Ron were still sleeping in the original tent, behind layers upon layers of wards. The first thing Hermione did as soon as she was set up was strip off her cold, wet clothes and take a shower, while brushing her teeth to get rid of the taste of vomit that lingered in her mouth. She had very little time to figure out how to contain Riddle.

He was still in her beaded bag, hanging from one of the towel hooks and in view from where Hermione was showering. She could hear him speak every so often, but it was muffled through the beaded bag and difficult to hear over the shower. When she got out, she waved a quick drying spell over herself, dressed, and poured two different glasses of water. One for herself. One for him. He was bound to be thirsty.

Using her surroundings, Hermione pulled a chair to the centre of the room and levitated him from the bag. He looked like a drowned cat as she removed his blindfold and sat him down on the chair, binding him to it. Feeling generous, she cast a drying spell on him as well.

"I seem to have missed your name," Riddle said, obviously trying to be charming. "What did you say it was again?"

Hermione pursed her lips. What did he think? That she was stupid? "That's too bad. I seem to have missed yours as well." Picking up the glass of water, she brought it to him and pressed it against his bottom lip. His brow rose and he resisted for a few seconds before finally relenting and sucking down the entire glass.

"Thank you," Riddle said stiffly, licking the water that had dribbled onto his lips when she pulled the glass away.

"You're welcome." They stared at each other from across the short distance. Hermione was leaning against the kitchen counter; he was just a few feet in front of her.

He finally spoke, "You're quite possibly the strangest woman I have ever met."

"I suppose it's not every day that you meet a goat sacrificing witch who consorts with ancient druids," Hermione muttered, staring off at her surroundings. It was so perfectly replicated – not even transfiguration could have gotten it this good.

"Do you also make it a hobby of kidnapping people who ask about your locket?" Riddle had his eyes narrowed at her and she shrugged.

"Not really." Unfortunately, she had a façade to keep up so she asked, glancing over at him, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Riddle answered, his expression clouded over with mistrust. "Yourself?"

"Eighteen." She paused, regarding him with curiosity. "How did you get around the trace?"

That was one thing she could never figure out in particular about Tom Riddle's past and it always bothered her.

Riddle snorted. "Not like it's difficult."

"It's very difficult, actually," Hermione contradicted. "I mean… unless you know someone who works in the Department of Mysteries-"

Riddle's eyes flashed briefly and she knew that she hit her mark. He _did_ know someone in the Department of Mysteries! _That_ was how. Ha! So it _wasn't_ because he was ridiculously powerful and a bloody prodigy like Ron and Harry had thought. He was just well-connected.

"Why did you capture me?" Riddle's question brought her out of her triumphant reverie.

That was a very good question – one that she wasn't exactly certain how to answer. She pondered it, pouring herself another glass of water. "Well, you killed three people right in front of me, performed some sort of ritual, Cruciated me, interrogated me and _more_… Why _wouldn't_ I capture you?" she asked. "I suppose I could turn you over to the Ministry if you'd prefer."

"You're lying," Riddle accused, his eyes narrowing to calculating slits.

Hermione shook her head. "I can assure you that nothing of what I said was a lie."

"But it's not the reason why you captured me, so it's a lie," he retorted. "You also went to great lengths to secure this secluded…" he paused, looking around the tent with a sneer, "_place_ to keep me in."

"Of course," Hermione replied, taking a deep breath. "Kidnapping is against the law the last time I looked."

"Yes, but _why_ kidnap me?"

"Why did you kill those three people?" Hermione countered, raising an eyebrow.

Riddle glowered at her from his seat, his mouth forming a straight line. Leaning farther back against the counter, Hermione yawned. She had to get going back to Harry and Ron very soon and, while she had a vague idea of what to do to keep Riddle inside the tent, she only understood the spells she needed for the job in theory.

She already knew that the entire place was clear of any magical objects that he could use and, thinking ahead, she took a few books out of her beaded bag that were published before 1940, setting them on the counter.

Steeling herself, Hermione approached him and levitated the chair to move him aside. "What are you doing now?" Riddle asked impatiently as she started to perform a spell, pointing her wand at the very centre of the tent. An gleaming iron rod bloomed from the floor, sprouting a wispy silver chain that she grasped in her hand.

Riddle struggled in his bindings as she lifted up his trouser leg and snapped the chain around his ankle. The trouser leg fit back down over it, the wispy chain passing through the fabric.

"You're _leashing_ me?" Riddle growled through his teeth.

"Yes." Hermione nodded once, checking the quality of her spellwork to make sure it would hold. "I have a few things to take care of and I want to make sure you don't escape while I'm gone." She pointed her wand threateningly toward him. "_Don't_ try anything. I'm sure you know how dark this spell is; the results won't be pleasant."

Hermione grabbed her beaded bag and shoved it into her pocket before releasing Riddle from his numerous _incarcerous_ bindings. The young Dark Lord stretched out his limbs as she backed toward the door, her wand trained on him the entire time. "There's some food in the cupboard and the bathroom is through that door over there. I'll return as soon as I can," she said, exiting the tent and warding the closure for good measure.

The moment she got through the wards, she constructed a few extra defenses around the area to ensure he didn't escape, even if he managed to get off the leash. She looked back at the empty space where she knew the tent was, only because it was her wards that hid it, and her shoulders deflated as she reflected on the past few hours.

Merlin, what had she gotten herself into?

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**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading! Please review!


	4. My Kingdom For A Wand

**Author's Note: **Hello again! Thank you to everyone for following/favouriting and reviewing! This fic is going to be in both Tom and Hermione's points of view for fullness, but it's largely in Hermione's POV. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Disclaimer** [written by my punny boyfriend and placed here under the threat of something abhorrent]: Of course I own Harry Potter. (JK, but I'm Rowling with it).

_**Real**_** Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize, I do not own and I am making no money off of writing this. No copyright infringement is intended whatsoever. Divitiacus is a real ancient druid who existed in the time of Julius Caesar and, thus, is not really owned by me either.

**The Wishing Well**

My Kingdom For A Wand

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The girl – his _captor_ – was destroying his plans. Tom Riddle fingered the ring that rested at his knuckle and stared resentfully at his surroundings.

She took his wand from him and, even though he wasn't completely powerless, he wasn't about to go setting fire to the – _tent?_ – around him to try and escape. He glared down at the leash that was perpetually attached to his ankle. He had tried everything to get it off after she left, willing as much magic as he could muster into the task. He ended up singeing his trousers and burning the hair off his leg in the process.

Pacing around the small kitchen provided to him, he eyed the cleaver on the chopping block. _He could…_ but he wouldn't. There were other means of escaping. Only if he were left without another choice would he resort to _that_. His mysterious kidnapper was bound to make a mistake soon enough. She seemed impulsive, but also quite clever. It was nearly as if she had _known_ him – how that was possible, he did not understand. He had never met her in his entire life; if he did, he would have definitely remembered someone with a rat's nest of hair like hers.

Regrettably, from the little time he had spent with her, he could gauge that she wouldn't be easy to manipulate. She was strong, reckless, and determined and would possibly be a Gryffindor if she attended Hogwarts, but she had a few Slytherin traits that he could pick out. Her spell weaving and the cavalier way in which she approached the forbidden wishing well betrayed those traits. She wasn't too bad at casting _Guinevere's Curse_ – otherwise known as the 'containment leash' once employed by Morgana during the time of Merlin – though he could tell that she was a novice at best. She was not familiar with the intricacies of the Dark Arts; however, regardless, her leash was _irritatingly_ effective.

He couldn't escape. Not without his wand or chopping off a limb.

He was surprised, however, by her mercy. She did not harm him in any way, though he had not allowed her the same decency, and she had even left him a few books to read to pass the time while she was gone.

But, perhaps the books were her way of trying to distract him away from thinking of plans of escape? No, that was giving her too much credit. He had read all of them from cover to cover anyway, save for one, which was a work of Muggle fiction, _Historiettes, Contes et Fabliaux_, translated from French.

Of all of the fictional things she could have left for him, she left him the work of de Sade. Perhaps she was trying to send him a message – _I know you more than you think?_

He could only be thankful that it wasn't Jane Austen.

Tom fell back into the hideous, tattered chair and absorbed himself in the book, discerning it. She had to be halfblood at least. No pureblood would leave him this book, even if Marquis de Sade could have been a secret wizard. During those troubled times of the Inquisition, it was unwise to flaunt your magical heritage. Those with magic were burnt up, tortured, and hanged left and right with their bowels strewn out from their ceremonially-sliced bellies. Muggles were vicious beasts. Better to be viewed as a libertine than a wizard.

A smirk pulled at Tom's lips and then disappeared quickly, his thoughts focusing back on his predicament. He had to figure out his captor's motives and his mind ran over everything he had witnessed.

She had waltzed into the Riddle mansion during the _worst_ possible time. Did she have wards on the mansion that would alert her if any danger had fallen upon the Riddle family? From his relative's remarks, he was sure that they despised magic and feared it. Why would they employ a witch to come to their aid? It didn't make any sense.

Was that why she had captured him? Because he killed the Riddles? It was the only motive he could think of in that scenario.

Now that he considered it, she _had_ put up a very good fight. He replayed that portion in his mind, assessing. And then there was the forbidden wishing well, the extra goat carcass, and the locket. She also seemed familiar with the ancient druid – Divitiacus? – she had spoken to in the burial chamber. He wished he could have heard the druid's side of the conversation. He only had what she said to go on.

Initially, her wish was to send him back… But back to _where?_ To the Riddle mansion? Maybe she simply wanted to escape him and run away and sending him back to the Riddle mansion was her way of putting distance between them? What a frivolous wish to ask an ancient druid with the ultimate powers to grant any wish. Yet, he couldn't blame her if that were the case; perhaps she was more cowardly than he previously gathered.

No… he needed to know more about her. She was eighteen – possibly halfblood. He knew that much. This was quite the conundrum. Nevertheless, she had Slytherin's locket, which she claimed to have gotten from Borgin and Burkes – blatant lie.

He wondered - did she speak parseltongue? If so, she could've potentially been a distant relative of the Gaunts. She could have had wards there that would alert her of danger – after all, Morfin Gaunt was an absolute dolt with magic. Did she come to protect him when she was alerted that Tom broke into his hovel? But then she would have had to find him at the Riddle mansion… How would she know that he was there?

Well, Morfin could've told her the memory Tom planted into his mind and, if so, was she at the Riddle mansion to clean up the crime scene?

Sighing, Tom closed the book in front of him. Nothing made absolute sense.

And Wool's… He swore he had apparated them in front of Wool's. Oddly enough, it was the first place that came to mind when he grabbed hold of the locket, with the intention of breaking the chain and fleeing. However, while the place he had seen mere hours ago bared a _resemblance_ to the orphanage, it wasn't the same place that he had snuck out of yesterday. Even the buildings that surrounded it were different.

Was he losing his touch?

If he was, and truly _did_ miss his mark, it was the girl's fault. She apparated them all over the place repeatedly, deliberately making him – _and herself_ – ill from over-apparation. It must have negatively affected his skill, causing them to land somewhere he had not originally intended.

That theory didn't sit well with him though. He was very precise.

Destination. Deliberation. Determination.

He had _never_ gotten it wrong before.

But, he had yet to rule out hallucinations; those were a side-effect of over-apparation as well.

Tom Riddle sighed and stood up from his chair, dropping _Historiettes, Contes et Fabliaux_ onto the plush surface, before going to see what the witch left him to eat in the tiny kitchen. As much as he preferred to think on an empty stomach, it wasn't getting him anywhere.

And, as much as he loathed to admit it, he simply did not have enough information in order to deduce the girl's motives and reasoning.

He needed to figure out a way to get his wand back. _Then_, he could _really_ get to the bottom of this conundrum.

With a devious curve of his lips, Tom bit into a ripe green pear, his mind formulating a plan.

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**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading!


	5. Tea For Two and Two For Tea

**Author's Note: **Thank you, everyone! You've all been so kind. Here's another update – I hope you enjoy it!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything you recognize, historical druids and Asda included. I'm also making no money off this and no copyright infringement is intended.

**The Wishing Well**

Tea For Two And Two For Tea

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Cautiously, Hermione approached the tent after closing the wards behind her. She had no idea what she was bound to find when she pulled up the tent-flap, but she had a feeling that it was best to be on guard.

It took her over a day and a half to get a nighttime watch post again and, being a bit paranoid, she had cast an illusion of herself outside the tent where Harry and Ron were staying. It wouldn't do for them to wake up in the middle of the night and find her gone; however, if they tried to talk to her illusion, the jig would be up. She had yet to figure out how to make illusions talk. The book she consulted divulged very little on that subject.

Sadly, thanks to her paranoia in keeping Harry and Ron satisfied that she was constantly around, she hadn't had much time to crack open the book Divitiacus had so graciously given her. She would get to it though, definitely. It was the only solution.

Hesitating, Hermione lifted her wards and protections on the tent flap and pulled it aside, brandishing her wand firmly. When she was satisfied that she was in no immediate danger, her eyes narrowed as she glanced around the magical tent. Where was he?

The silvery leash loosely trailed along the room, but Riddle was nowhere in sight. Was he hiding from her?

With a frustrated sigh, she yanked on the leash, hearing a loud crash come from behind the bathroom door. And then an angry growl as the door burst open, revealing a much displeased Tom Riddle, holding onto the waistband of his trousers with his shirt haphazardly thrown on over his shoulders. His hair was damp and droplets of water beaded onto the collar of his shirt.

Bad idea. This wasn't good.

"I was in the shower," Riddle gritted out, stalking toward her after buttoning up his trousers. She could feel the magical energy radiating off of him in furious waves and the lounge chair next to her burst into flame.

He was probably trying to aim at her but, without a channel for his magic, missed. Hermione flicked her wand and Riddle dropped to the floor, incarcerated by invisible magical ropes.

"Not _this_ again." Riddle sneered. "Where are you taking me now? Another secluded fleapit of yours?"

Another flick of her wand put the fire out and repaired the lounge chair. "Nowhere, in fact. And I apologize for disturbing your shower," Hermione started, staring at him with a stern expression, "but there's no need for you to _attack_ me for it."

She levitated him to the chair, remaining vigilant. Just because he was bound didn't mean he couldn't set anything _else_ on fire. It wasn't as if she could _completely_ take away his magic – just his wand, which was currently in a locked box in her beaded bag that she left behind in case Harry and Ron needed to make a quick getaway without her. Her replicated beaded bag was in her pocket.

"I was hoping that we could, at least, speak civilly without having to resort to this," Hermione continued, not daring to sit on anything – it was a potential fire hazard with him around. She took out her replicated beaded bag and accio'd items, setting them onto the counter. "I even brought you some more food and tea. I wasn't sure what kind you liked so I got a few different types."

"If you're trying to induce Stockholm Syndrome, I'll warn you now; it won't work on me," Riddle drawled, his eyes surveying the selection of groceries she was unpacking with mistrust.

She scoffed, waving her wand toward him as if she were wagging her finger. "Just because I am trying to be _nice_ does not mean that I have ulterior motives!"

Regarding her suspiciously, Riddle's eyes trailed over her and his brow rose. "Why aren't you wearing the locket?"

_Because it was Harry's turn. _

"I thought it would be prudent if I left it at home," she replied, going back to unpacking the food she had guiltily stolen from Asda earlier this evening. She had gotten things that were 40's-appropriate and charmed the labels off of them to make sure he couldn't discern that he was in the future from the food.

Amidst levitating the tea into the cupboard, she nearly jumped at the sudden sound of hissing coming from Riddle. Parseltongue. She recognized it from hearing Harry speak it rarely over the years.

What was he playing at?

Hermione glanced at him confusedly, clutching her wand. Was he trying to summon all of the snakes in the area to come and attack her? Could he even _do_ that?

"Interesting," she heard Riddle mutter.

Her lips pursed. "What's interesting?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, looking as if the butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Are you a halfblood by any chance?"

Keeping on her toes about the possibility of snakes bursting into the tent, Hermione dithered. He wanted to know her blood status; so he was trying to figure her out – place her in some twisted category – was that it?

She shrugged. "Sure, why not?" she said evasively, straightening out the tea with a twist of her wand while keeping watch on Riddle out of the corner of her eye.

Part of her panicked at the blatant look of irritation that marred his expression, but the other part wanted to recklessly laugh in triumph. He obviously wasn't fond of ambiguous answers.

"You couldn't possibly be a Mudblood. What school did you go to?"

_Hogwarts._

Hermione blinked. "You're very inquisitive for a captive," she dryly remarked, observing him.

Riddle seemed amused by this. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm in no position to ask questions?"

"Perhaps," she said, avoiding his direct gaze. "Why the curiosity?"

He surprisingly deigned to grace her with a straight answer. "You have my locket."

_Of course_ it was about the locket – all of it must have been; from blood status to parseltongue. He was always about the locket from the moment he had seen it on her. She wanted to roll her eyes.

"Finders keepers."

"So you _found_ it, did you?" Riddle asked, his eyes lighting up with interest.

_Damnit. _

"Yes, at Borgin and Burkes. _Found_ it and _bought_ it," Hermione recovered, though she knew he didn't believe her.

"Liar."

She wanted nothing more than to slap that smug expression off of his face. How degrading. _He_ was the one tied up and leashed and yet _he_ had the upper hand in the questioning! Brilliant, just _brilliant_.

"Why do you have such an interest in that locket anyway?" Hermione asked, knowing full well why, but she wanted to shift the conversation to her advantage.

"Are you deliberately playing dumb?" Riddle paused, repositioning himself within his bindings. "You didn't seem so surprised when I started speaking parseltongue."

"You're not the first parselmouth I've met," she said, hoping to play on his insecurities and point out that he really wasn't as one-of-a-kind as he thought.

"Regardless," he replied softly, "I think you can deduce from that why I would be interested in the locket."

"Family heirloom, is it?" Hermione vindictively returned, thinking quickly. "Too bad for you that someone pawned it off, or it wouldn't be in my possession."

Riddle's jaw set and his eyes narrowed. "You're determined to stick with your Borgin and Burkes story."

"Yes."

They reached a strange sort of impasse, staring at each other determinedly. The air in the room felt palpably heavy and Hermione waited for him to say another word – or possibly set another piece of furniture on fire from the way he was looking at her.

Letting out the long breath she was holding when he didn't appear to want to say anything else, she grabbed a box of tea from the cupboard and dug out the kettle. Tea tended to 'solve' a lot of things in life, though it was doubtful that it was going to do much for this situation. As the water started to boil, she noticed that Riddle seemed lost in thought, his eyes unfocused as he gazed at her.

As much as Hermione enjoyed the reprieve from his incessant questioning and assessment of her, she broke the silence between them by asking, "What kind of tea do you like?"

"I've no preference," he said, averting his gaze to the wall in front of him.

Did that mean that she went out and pilfered _**six**_ different types of tea for nothing? She was actually hoping that it would get him to warm up a little – a small, nice gesture – but that was obviously a _huge_ misjudgment.

"Oh, come on. Everyone has a type of tea they're fond of."

His brows rose in a manner that clearly said, 'you're honestly questioning me about something as trivial as tea?'

"Earl Grey it is then." This time she _did_ roll her eyes. "Cream or sugar?"

"Neither," he replied curtly.

At least he seemed a lot calmer than before, but she wasn't certain if that was a good thing or a bad thing. With a short wave of her wand, she unbound one of his arms and levitated a cup of tea into his hand.

"Why are you even bothering?" Riddle asked, warily sniffing at the tea, which tested her patience a little. He had _watched_ her make it. It wasn't like it was _easy_ to slip potions into drinks unnoticed in the tent's tiny kitchen.

"What do you mean?" She tried to keep her tone neutral.

"I'm your _prisoner_. If Stockholm Syndrome isn't your aim, why are you bothering to pretend to be nice?"

He finally took a sip from his cup and Hermione seated herself onto the counter, her wand still firmly in her grasp. She noticed, in the bottom of her vision, that one of his trouser legs was singed quite badly. He must have tried to get the leash off at some point and failed – ha!

"It's not like there's a rulebook on keeping prisoners that says you can't be nice to them," she retorted, "even if they haven't returned the courtesy."

She wasn't going to forget that he used the Cruciatus Curse on her and that he was fully capable of murder. And wandless magic, even if it was unstable. It was still very dangerous.

"Do you do this sort of thing often?" Riddle asked, looking down at his teacup with a slight frown of distaste. He probably didn't like his tea over-steeped, like she did.

"I can't say that I do."

"So why _me?_" His gaze was sharp when he looked up at her

Hermione shrugged, not able to come up with a proper lie for that. It was better to not tell him reasons why she acted in the manner she did anyway.

"You want something from me," Riddle assumed when she didn't answer him. "Yes?"

Did she? Actually, she wasn't certain if she did.

Having him there, in this time, had the possibility of being useful. She had considered that over the past day and a half since she had captured him. He knew about horcruxes and would possibly provide insight on the hiding spots for his horcruxes. Though, it was unlikely that he would ever give her any information on those subjects. She had yet to figure out a round-about way of discussing it without letting on about what she really wanted to know.

Regardless, at the rate they were going, it was doubtful that she would even get a chance to discuss _anything_ with him.

"Maybe," Hermione answered conclusively, sipping delicately at her tea.

Riddle's calculative smirk was unexpected. "Then we both have something that the other wants."

Great. She knew exactly where this was going.

"If you give me the locket, we may be able to make a trade," he continued over his cup of tea, putting on that sickeningly charming act that she wouldn't fall for for even a second.

Yet… it was tempting. The trade itself was nothing she would ever consider doing. It wasn't an option. And he would probably want the locket up-front, knowing him. He was simply trying to manipulate her. Well, there was no harm in returning the favour, was there?

"I doubt that what I want is something you'd consider a fair trade for the locket." She paused momentarily, draining the last bit of tea from her cup. "But I'll think about it."

Riddle was staring at her questioningly as she got down from the counter and grabbed her beaded bag. "What is it that you want?" he asked, definitely curious.

"I said that I'd think about it."

She actually had a _lot_ to think about in general, including _The Traveller's Secrets_, which she should have started on already. It was going to take a long time to get through and, from what she had read about time-turners and time travel in the past, it was no easy feat to create something that would send Riddle back to where he came from.

Pausing before she reached the door, Hermione turned back and released him from the invisible ropes before exiting the tent. The only reason she had come in the first place was deliver food and to make sure he didn't escape somehow. Any conversation was auxiliary. Well, _truly_, any conversation with him was _dangerous_.

He was of the past, she was of the future, and she couldn't let anything slip.

It was bad enough that she had to deal with Lord Voldemort's horcruxes and the war. Adding this on top of it was starting to give her a headache. She figured that her time alone for the rest of the night was best spent on cracking open that book. Even if Tom Riddle was potentially useful, the safest thing that she could do was send him back.

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**Author's Note**: Thank you for reading!


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